


Dear Connor Murphy - a DEH Novel reimagined

by terrestriellie



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deh - Freeform, Everyone Is Alive, Gay Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Rewrite, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Treebros, deh novel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:59:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrestriellie/pseuds/terrestriellie
Summary: "I've been watching him, I can't help it. What started as a curiosity is... something else now. In some crazy way, it almost feels like Evan and I were really friends. I've heard it said so much, I'm starting to actually believe it. Who knows? Maybe, in some alternate universe, we could've been."Things are declining fast and Connor is coming close to cutting his own ties with the world. When even the quietest, most vulnerable looking kids seem to want him dead, he decides that, maybe, he should give them exactly what they want.When Evan fucking Hansen goes ahead and fucks up his plans.Now his parents are convinced that he and this kid who seemed to be disgusted with his very existence were best friends and Connor finds himself faced with a very, very difficult choice.For the first time in his life, Murphy finds himself in a position where his existence is the focal point of everyone's lives.It's not easy continuing your life after being brought back from the dead.





	1. Prelude

I finished the Dear Evan Hansen novel on the bus ride home. The commute is something I do, typically, every day of my life and depending on traffic it can up to half an hour.  
I remember the moment clearly. My vision had been blurry from tears. I'd cried a lot already but, unlike before, the feeling in my chest was tighter and more constricting. Silent tears, the sort where you'd much more prefer to be left alone than be approached by anyone at anytime. It was a strange sort of familiarity I had with the story and the characters that had rendered me so incapable of expressing what was wrong to the woman who had asked me if I was okay.

  
Even when I had finished it, my hands stayed clutched onto the book. It was if I had been removed from reality and placed inside my own little, personal planet where the fictional characters I spent my time fantasising and reading about all stood around me, leaning on my shoulders, patting me on the back in a platonic reassurance that I didn't quite know I needed until they provided it. I didn't even realise that I hadn't put it away until I passed the landmark that is the duckpond opposite my road that told me I was about a three minute drive from my stop and I'd have to get off and face the cold winter's air alongside the group of stoners who also rode from my bus station (by now I'm sure I've inhaled enough pot smoke to get a first timer high enough to think their mum was their girlfriend).

  
So I walked home to the blaring music from my earphones that I was only half listening to, considering, amongst other things, my own mortality and the consequences of Connor Murphy.

  
I began to wonder about an alternate reality. Perhaps it was my own fascination with his story, or the ships but I had an overwhelming, guttural feeling to write something like this, a story in which Connor survives.

  
It's a topic that hits fairly close to home. What it's like to have all this hate and misery build up inside you. To feel alone. I know exactly how it all feels. I also know exactly what it would feel like for him, had he woken up. The feeling is too familiar. How it felt to actually attempt things, to hate yourself that much that you actually go through with it. Yet, due to perseverance and struggle and science and NHS workers who work way too fucking hard and are genuine fucking heroes, you're alive.

  
This is a story intended to share the struggle of being thrown back into the world. It makes you feel like a ghost, the knowledge that you could have been dead had anyone been a little too late. The separation, the refusal, how the people you wanted to know didn't (and how you didn't have the courage to tell them) or how the people you didn't want to know do (and how they hold it over your head for the rest of your life). I remember how someone told me they wished I'd just been left to die.

  
That's why reading the novel and seeing that people had laughed at Connor Murphy's suicide hurt the most. 

  
So, I'm writing this. For all you treebros shippers out there, yes, there is going to be some. It seems only appropriate when the situation was the same for me as well. I don't know.

  
I wrote this to tell another story. To tell a different story. A happy ending, maybe. It depends on your perspective. To say Connor deserved better, I understand. But for the better place to come, after all of this, there's worse. A second storm that you can't escape that nearly drives you to the edge again.

  
Dear Connor Murphy, and all those like him, I hope things get better. In fact, I can promise they will.

  
From someone who's been in that situation, trust me, trying it will be the biggest fucking regret of your life.

  
Before you read on, if you're currently in a bad place, these are some foundations you can check out. This book may be fictional, but the situations are not. I wish that I myself had used these resources instead of doing what I did.

  
Things are better now for me

.  
https://www.mind.org.uk/  
https://www.thecalmzone.net/  
https://www.samaritans.org/  
http://papyrus.org.uk/


	2. I made my exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is essentially an introduction from Connor's perspective. For chronology, it is written after the events of the book.   
> It was sort of fun writing it, I enjoy writing from his perspective.  
> Relevant tags: mention of suicidal thoughts and self harm.

Better to burn out than to fade away, right? That's what Kurt Cobain wrote in his letter. There was a documentary that I watched on it, illegally uploaded to YouTube. Ernest Hemmingway, Robin Williams, Virginia Woolf, Hunter S. Thomson, Sylvia Plath, Van Gogh. Then there were the more obscure ones which I found on Tumblr. Namely, James Robert Baker, Brenda Benet, Dora Carrington. All with death and legacy on their Wikipedia pages. I'm not comparing myself - trust me. Those people left an impact on the world. I'm sure, had things worked out, nobody would have even noticed.

  
I didn't even write a note. I couldn't even die.

  
Burning is the correct way to spell it out. Things just get hotter, every single day. Hot. Hot. Hot. It ends up being too much, y'know. Even stars, even the goddamn sun will fizzle out and explode one day, taking out all of us at the same time, if we're even still here anymore. If you look up at the sky, you don't see it. All the stars remain. But most are gone. Dead to the world. I guess I just happen to be one of the ones still going, as unbelievable as it seems.

  
My name was the last thing I wrote. I guess, at the time, I was fine with that. My final mark on the world on some kid's broken arm. Seems about right. Poetic, maybe, if you're pretentious enough to view it that way. But now, there's more to write. Dates and names, new phone numbers in my battered up cell. The hoodie I wore is no longer the confinement of my body. My nail polish won't stay chipped, if I can even bring myself to paint over it with my shaking hands. The boy, no longer a passer-by who hated me like everyone else. Maybe, now, my only motivation to keep going. I know quite easily that if I pulled it again that I'd stay dead. For some reason, it doesn't seem as appealing anymore.

  
Evan Hansen, oh boy, what are you doing to me?

  
My mark on the world is left undefined. Perhaps it will stay like that until the day I actually kick the bucket. Sometimes, I can't help but feel like I'm not really alive. I know I am. How my heart thuds against my ribs at the sight of him is a tell-tale sign of it. I imagine, if I was dead, the ghost-version of me wouldn't have all these scars on my arms. I'd at least have the common sense to not retain the parts of myself I regretted the most. Now they stand out as a reminder. Maybe it's for the best? I wish I didn't have them. Maybe that's a good thing.

  
So, for now, the not-ghost me roams the world. All too obvious in the spotlight that is suddenly shone on me, like I'm an impossible specimen at a zoo for impossible creatures. It's hard. I'd like to get on with my life as though nothing happened, but the gravity of the situation dawns on me when I make the wish and I feel something I thought I never would: guilty.

  
It's icy. Cold. Cold. Cold. Like I've been plummeted into the artic with nothing more than the hoodie that I would have retained in the afterlife. Not what I meant when I said I wanted to be seen.

  
The attention is unpleasant. I wonder if, one day, I'll ever feel proud again. When Larry said things to me I didn't quite believe, I felt it. Now every word spoken to me feels like pity. Apart from him.

  
Cold, cold, cold. Cold as ice. I'm facing a blizzard of thoughts. I almost miss the heat. Before, it felt like I had the option to duck out. The easy route. Now that path is covered in warning signs and memory and regret. I immediately stop missing it.

  
The only time I feel warmth now is when he holds me. It doesn't feel like pity when he speaks. Though the guilt still stands. I've never seen him cry, but I can tell that he wants to. I know that he thinks about what would have happened if I... I do too. Weird how it never would have affected him until I rose from the dead. That's what I've been saying. Seems to soften the blow, I find. Zombies are cooler than ghosts. At least I know I'm being seen.

  
But to him, I'm not dead. It's not like I'm a ghost or a miracle of life. He sees me and he sees life and I think it makes him a little too happy. Whenever we touch, he smiles. Whenever I speak, it looks like he might cry. He never does, though. And it's not for my sake, it's for his. It makes it all the better. Relieved is how I could describe it, that I'm not the reason that someone is holding themselves back. Because It means I can actually help. He puts up with a lot of shit. He, too, knows what it's like to want to disappear. I think it hits him harder than me, sometimes. I could stay up all night and read off to him why he shouldn't and, now that I have personal experience, I know I mean it. His list of reasons to live is long, at least in my eyes. Like a swear jar full of pennies, there's a moment behind each.

  
Mine is short. One thing, actually. Him.

  
And it says so much.

  
Things are far from fucking right. I don't think they ever will be. I refuse to deal with that bullshit where people think your mental health can be fixed because you fell in love. It's wrong.

  
But there are two sides. There are others who say that you shouldn't love unless you love yourself. That's bullshit too. To say that if you hate yourself, that you don't deserve love. Or that you can't love. I think that makes things worse: it's only another reason to say that you're not worth it.

  
I can say this, though. If he thinks I'm worth it, maybe I'm not as bad as I came to believe.

  
I made my exit, and it was the greatest mistake of my life. But the walls crashed in and the doors locked. Now, as I stand beneath the wooden frames, I realise it.  
Maybe it's time for me to make my entrance instead.

  
_\- C_


	3. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant trigger warnings/ tags: suicidal thoughts, implied self harm. Nothing graphic. I will put further warnings as the story goes on.

**_Rise and Shine._ **

  
The day starts the same way as they all do. First, with disappointment, because that's exactly what's thrust upon me when I see Cynthia standing in front of the grey curtains that she's just forced open. One of these days, I might just staple them together so there's no technique for her to wake me up. They're just opened to be immediately shut the moment she leaves the room. Not that I don't appreciate the light, honestly, I'm pretty fucking terrified of the dark.

  
Yeah, I am that much of a pussy.

  
But the window sits there with an obnoxious air about it that I can't quite stand. I've considered knocking out the panes before and just boarding it up, but that was around the time I rather inconveniently broke my wrist and I didn't fancy fucking up my other hand with a shit tonne of broken glass, so I never went through with it. However, it doesn't stop me from being pissed at my mother for constantly opening it while I'm out. With the window there or not, all I do in my room seems to remind me that I'm looking at everyone else's lives on my phone or at school while I'm regretting all the stuff I've managed to fuck up on that day in particular. The window is just an extra burden to carry: the fact that I'm invisible because, even when I fuck up enough for Larry to want me under quarantine, nobody is even going to notice I'm gone. 

  
Cynthia actually is my mom. My parents just adore it when I call them by their first names. 

  
Nothing wounds my father's authoritarian god complex than being disrespected enough by his own son to be referred to anything other than 'dad'.

  
I actually prefer 'Con' as a name. Not because it's cool or anything. It seems I've become sentimentally detached to anything my parents handed to me before all of this started. That includes names, nicknames, pretty much most of my clothes (which I hardly wear anyway, I pretty much stick to the same 5 shirts in circulation). 

  
It's the first day of school. I'm reminded of that fact by Cynthia's proud declaration of the words before she leaves my room, leaving the door almost-but-not-quite-shut. It's a part of her overwhelming optimistic outlook upon everything. Am I supposed to be excited? I'd rather do anything than show up to that hellhole today. Or any day, to be ever-so-honest. There are about a million things currently existing in the world around me that sharpen my nerves and set me on my toes and, above all else, the comments I'm about to receive in the hallway or the notes in my locker or the whispers when my name is called already feels heavy enough in my chest to make me want to flip a desk. Then it will be more stern tones and "Connor" and "Mr Murphy" will buzz around the room like a swarm of gnats.

  
I swing my legs over the edge of my bedframe and cringe momentarily. Shit, did I really go to bed in my boxers? It's worse than morning wood or whatever else normal kids will get embarrassed about when they wake up. My main regret is how exposed my thighs are and, through consequence, the scars littered across them. 

  
I'd started shortly after my mother had dropped my last therapist, which had been a result of a chain of events which, in short-hand, had led to me being here today, dreading going back to public school. I hate to linger on the details. Fuck it, it's not like I particularly miss the preppy ass piece of shit educators anyway. But thinking of there makes me think of the summer afterwards, and Miguel and his birthmark and my arms and how he'd never responded to my texts...

  
Rehab had been the worst of the situation. I wasn't addicted, not back then, I'm sure of it. But being with all those kids, with burnt out eyes and punctured arms from needles, it had only ever made me want to smoke now. You would too, if you spent a solid month and a half essentially being told that every decision you've made up to this point makes you worthless and the only way to improve is this pointless manual labour we're going to force you into (which I think had been intended to reflect life skills and education on statistics on drugs but, regarding the effectiveness, they were essentially telling us to dig up the desert, like in 'Holes'). The guy Cynthia had been paying for me went the moment I'd been sent off and I think, after that, Larry finally won the war because I never got another one.

  
What was the point in rehab anyway? I tell myself I'm worthless every fucking day.

  
It's not that I think my mother is worthless, but she hardly ever takes the time to listen to me, rather she'd refer me to some bullshit that looked like she'd pulled straight out of a magazine. She tried, I'll give her that, but I'd never gotten a medically licensed psychiatrist or... I don't even know what. But none of the shit she ever gave me had a solution. Half-hearted suggestions were made and eventually ignored.

  
My Father drew the line at meds. He said the very concept was ridiculous. Hard work and discipline seems to be his method. Probably a projection of his own fragile masculinity which prevents him from believing that depression is anything more than feeling "bummed out". It's sad, honestly, but I'll never take the time to feel bad for him.  
First, socks. I tape the razorblade to the inner facing side of my ankle before slipping them over my bare feet. 

  
Believe it or not, my jeans were never ridiculously tight. Not flared, but they taper out and straight down, hanging loosely on my legs. I used to roll up the ankles but now I keep them sitting comfortably overtop of my shoes, covering the lump where the sharp metal sits against my foot. It's the same with my arms, the hoodie, baggy enough to hide where the switch lays. Then there's a couple beneath the actual soles of my sneakers, a few in the front of my bag and, if worst comes to worst, I keep a small screwdriver in my pencil case to wedge out the sharpeners. Nothing new.

  
I push on my jeans and tug off my shirt, not even looking down to look at the exposed skin there. I pull on a shirt - black, band shirt. Daughter. That's all it says, then it's got tour dates on the back. I bought it myself, thus it stands as on of the few items of clothing I'll wear. 

  
I used to pretend I liked all that pop punk stuff. It added to the reputation I'd built as the "edgy, smoker kid". But I find, now, that I can never connect to the lyrics to many of the popular ones. It's all just a little out of touch. So I started listening to softer stuff. Gentle, meaningful. Jesus, how much people would laugh if they knew I liked that sort of stuff, I'd probably be publicly executed, so I made a private playlist on Spotify and left it at that. 

  
I zip the hoodie up over the shirt.

  
I like to call it "gay mess indie shit", or, alternatively, "shit to cry yourself to sleep to". Either title seems fitting, honestly. Both honest, at least.  
Oh, that's another thing my parents don't seem to listen to me about. Guess what, Larry, you don't have to worry about me 'never getting a wife' anymore. Now you get to belittle me with both genders! Isn't that a treat? 

  
Maybe I should have worn my Dodie shirt instead. That might give them a clue.

  
He.

  
I clamber down the stairs unceremoniously and sit down at the breakfast table.

  
Things begin going downhill from this point onwards. 

  
I poor some cereal into a bowl and don't add any milk. It's part of my technique of avoiding the food I'm given - especially by my parents. I do eat, just not breakfast. The idea of eating so early in the morning gives me nausea. The unpleasant kind, too. When it feels like someone's attempting to force your skull open with a crow bar, alongside the choking feeling of something being stuck in your gut. I leave the cereal dry and tip it back into my box when my mother looks away. 

  
It seems like nobody else is eating, which is also the norm. Our breakfast habits just so happen to reflect exactly how we behave everywhere else. I'm sure I could hire one of those tv psycho-analysists and they'd probably pick up ten to twelve moments of body language that indicates nerves, vulnerability or awkwardness. The first thing I pick up is that Larry's on his phone.

  
Cynthia, on the other hand, is buzzing all around us. It's no wonder she never notices that I'm not eating. No matter how much she seems to insist on how much of a family manager she is to her mom friends (certainly taking the opportunity to complain about me while she's at it), she doesn't actually pay attention to... well, anyone. She only ever takes focus when I'm the one under the sledgehammer. Seems to be the case with most of the family.

  
Zoe just so happens to be the only person eating.

  
It's a mixed relationship we have. I love her, we argue, she hates my fucking guts. But I still love her. She stares at her cereal with disdain. It's a familiar expression.  
I don't know whether to feel jealous or guilty. On the one hand, Zoe never gets in trouble. Ever. She could get away with killing a man in our household. A massacre? Oh, maybe a day without her phone. She could get low grades without there being a sudden uproar about her being either a slacker or "not having enough support". Oh yeah, maybe I failed that test because one weekend I was banned from the internet and the other my mom had me disappear for another 48 hour 'cleansing trip'. I think she's just sick of me being here.

  
Zoe only ever gets positive attention. Then again, I always feel bad. Of course, shit is always my fault and that's not my parents talking, that's me. I always manage to fuck things up for her. It seems, sometimes, she should be the one in the spotlight when all I seem to do is overshadow it. I'm an awful fucking brother for even feeling jealous. Maybe I should just pull myself together?

  
It'll never happen.

  
The weight in my chest is heavier now. Heat seems to rush through my head as my eyes focus on the clock on the wall, ticking, moment by moment closer to when I'll have to leave. 

  
"Can't I just stay off?"

  
Everyone looks at me, now. It's the first thing I've said all morning and I already want the earth to swallow me up whole.  
My mother's beady, stern eyes lock with mine and she smiles. I think it was intended to be reassuring but, if anything, it just makes me feel like she's marking me down on where would be the best and quickest way to render me lifeless. 

  
"School will do you some good, Connor. Trust me. It's a new year."

  
What she's basically telling me is that I don't have a fucking choice on where I'm going or why. That nearly makes me snort. What makes her think that I've ever had a choice? Not in this fucking household. 

  
Zoe always had a choice.

  
I can tell by my loving mother's tone of voice that she's already sick of me. At least, that's how it registers, and the little whisperer sitting at the very back of my mind makes sure to keep reminding me of it. His favourite trope at the moment is the constant reminder of how much greater my parents lives would have been if I had never been born. The word 'accident' is familiar but I am in no way numbed to its existence at the moment. Zoe as an only child, too. Buckle up, sis, you're going to be showered in all the love and attention you crave and deserve. No longer do you have to worry about your spotlight being stolen by your useless druggie of a brother. 

  
_How much richer would your parents be if they'd never wasted all of that money on you?_

  
Well, Zoe wouldn't be going to public. She'd be going places.

  
And that's what really makes me feel awful.

  
"What's even the point in me going?"

  
"Larry, listen to your son-"

  
Oh here we go, into the swing of things. Maybe they should get me a muzzle to get me to shut the fuck up: that way, I could avoid the sheer paranoia it causes me to hear my father's disinterest.

  
Cynthia isn't a fighter. For whatever reason, she seems to expect that Larry is. Or, at least, that I'll listen to him. The logic isn't entirely flawed. I find that the only praise I ever believe comes from him. I don't know how she hasn't noticed that he's completely given up.

  
"You're going to school, Connor."

  
I can see a twitch of rage behind my mother's eyes and I take this as a great point to completely tune out of the conversation before me.  
"Ignore him, he's probably just high."

  
See what I mean? Absolutely anything. My parents are now far too preoccupied to take any notice of her, or of me. They're going at it for a while, talking like I'm not here, sitting across the table from them, as per usual. Welcome to the Murphy household. Buckle in if you're named anything other than Connor, because you're in for praise, drama and constant, well maintained entertainment that you can set off at any time. As for me, it seems the best to stay nice and wonderfully numb. 

  
I glance at Zoe, she's finished with her toast. She's distracted enough by her phone to not notice how I tip my bowl back into the box and tap my wrist lightly out of force of habit. I don't make any movements to leave until she stands up in silence. She seems rather indifferent to whether I come or not - there's no way I'm staying for that argument now, though. Not unless I've taken a fancy to rolling up my sleeves prematurely. 

  
I get into her car in silence. Zoe ignores me. I don't think she even checks if I'm wearing a seatbelt anymore. Actually, I'm not sure if she checks if I'm even in the car.  
She pulls out of the driveway.

  
It's yet another perk of being me. My younger sister drives you around everywhere. It seems kind or even loving when you think about it. Until you realise that it's because the car you did have - that your father gave your out of pride or maybe trust - is lying in a scrapyard somewhere, only purpose to the world now is contributing to the carbon footprint of some billionaire car manufacturing company. 

  
I like to lie to myself, occasionally. For whatever reason, I feel far more stable when I tell myself that the reason I crashed was because of some stray deer that was stupid enough to sprint in front of me. That my swerve and hit and thud was the result of fight or flight. The concept of me considering it with morality and deciding I had enough empathy to risk my own life than take the life of an innocent creature. Connor Murphy: idiotic hero. 

  
It's a lie. I tell myself that, too, though all from a third person perspective. Much thanks to the whisper. 

  
There was no deer in the headlights. I crashed because I wanted to. A split second decision. I was sure, if I died, my parents would profit off of the insurance money. At the time, it felt like I'd be happy. Like things would be better. Nine times out of ten, I still get that feeling. 

  
I wonder how many chances it'll take until I make the decision consciously and admit how much I want to die.

  
We're pulling up to the school parking lot now and I realise how tightly I've been clutching my left wrist. I also feel, all of a sudden, how my legs are tangled up in the footwell, my left foot digging ever so slightly into the ball of my ankle. Crisscross, that's normally how I tape them. It isn't a reassurance though. Normally they would be. But now they stand as a reminder of my impulsiveness. Then, I consider all the other reasons that I'm not worth my parents attention. 

  
Maybe I should be grateful they stopped wasting money on me. Maybe I should start walking to school. All these things. I'm a fucking inconvenience, aren't I?

  
"Connor."

  
Zoe's voice is one way to snap me out of it. I see that the car has stopped and that my hands are sweating. I shove them into my pockets and the wave of remorse that hits me is stronger than a fucking avalanche when I realise I don't have any cigarettes in there.

  
"Try not to pull any stupid shit. It's not worth it."

  
She gets out of the car and I watch her for a moment before sliding out myself. She must have been listening to the door because she locks the doors the moment it slams. She'll separate from me now, find her collection of girlfriends and be offered a few hours of peace when she can forget about my existence.  
I follow her to the front of the school. It's less of a follow, actually. She's about 15 feet ahead of me and gaining speed. I don't make any attempts to catch her as she closes the door and I wait for everyone else to head inside before I do the same. My hand rests on the knob and I tremble.

  
'It's not worth it.' 

  
The day starts as every day does. 

  
'It's not worth it'

  
The day starts with paranoia.

  
'It's not worth it.'

  
_Yeah, sure, OK._


End file.
